


Underneath

by verushka70



Category: due South
Genre: First Time, Light Bondage, M/M, due South Seekrit Santa Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/verushka70
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vecchio frowns, but his eyes never leave Kowalski's.  The everyday Ray keeps fucking this up.  The Ray <em>underneath</em> is determined to put a stop to that. The Ray <em>underneath</em> has a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spuffyduds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/gifts).



There are really two Ray Kowalskis inside Ray Kowalski. There's the everyday, surface Ray Kowalski, who's always paying attention (selective), always ready with some kind of comeback (snappy or not), always thinking too much (both ends of the self-esteem spectrum). He's always got some fib ready, always got excuses, always vacillating, doubting, wishing.

"Kowalski, bring me that list of fences for stolen designer goods, will you?"

Then there's the Ray Kowalski _underneath_ the surface Ray Kowalski. He's always paying attention, too. But he doesn't pay attention to exactly the same things. He's never ready with a comeback, at least not of the verbal kind. He sees without looking, hears without listening; people sound like the grownups in a Peanuts cartoon:  he only hears tone. He puts all the sensory input together, cuts through the surface noise and everyday bullshit, zeroes in on what's important. He can be... shameless.

"Did you just tell me to bring you something, Vecchio? Bring it _to you_?"

He knows what to say, what not to say, and when to keep his mouth shut. He's ready, instinctual. He's up for almost anything, anywhere on the spectrum from fighting to fucking. When pushed, when cornered, he steps up to make snap decisions the other Ray Kowalski would second guess and regret, but the Ray Kowalski underneath lives with and shrugs off (and maybe needs a few too many beers to forget about).

"Yeah, we need it to compare to the list of dealers of knock-off designer goods."

On his best days, the two Ray Kowalskis work in parallel, in harmony. This is especially true in his job, but occasionally it is also true in his personal life. More often, however, in his personal life, one of them supersedes the other -- usually the everyday Ray. The Ray _underneath_ can fuck up all kinds of everyday shit. But he knows what matters -- what he wants (needs), and how to get it. The everyday Ray knows what he needs, too -- how to get it, not so much.

"Vecchio:  bite me."

"You're hilarious. Just bring it over here."

Vecchio stands up from the desk, challenging him. But he puts a hand on the small of his back, under his suit jacket, and leans back, stretching. Kowalski watches how Vecchio’s clothes drape around his lean physique.

"Just so we're clear, I'm not bringing this to you," he points out. "I'm coming back to my desk, and I happen to have it with me."

He walks over using the Cook County Hospital shuffle: the slowest possible walk that still moves your body forward.

" _My_ desk." Vecchio glares at him.

" _My_ desk," Kowalski reiterates. He lifts his head, shakes it, feels the spikes of his hair move, and smiles dangerously. He narrows his eyes at Vecchio.

"Fine!" Vecchio frowns, but his eyes never leave Kowalski's. " _The_ desk, this desk. _Our_ desk."

There is the slightest softening of the wrinkles around Vecchio’s eyes, like he's looking at something he wants but can't have.

The Ray _underneath_ reads this entire interaction, just as he's been reading all interactions with Vecchio. Ray Vecchio has been all over the place. He's nervous, he covers it with bravado -- more than the usual bravado -- and he says something entirely different with his eyes than he does with his mouth.

The everyday Ray keeps fucking this up.

The Ray underneath is determined to put a stop to that. The Ray underneath has a plan.

Vecchio wipes his hands over his face as Kowalski gets to their desk with the list of fences.

"Tired?" he asks Vecchio.

"You have no idea. Give me that. We'll cross check them."

He snatches the list out of Kowalski’s hands. But then he just sets it on the desk, and his hand slides under his jacket to the small of his back again. He closes his eyes, rubbing his lower back.

"I got something you can crosscheck," Kowalski mutters, watching his partner's face carefully.

Vecchio's eyes pop open. His eyebrows go up, then down. His whole face flushes and he frowns. His green eyes are fierce, but it’s the kind of fierce that's only bluffing.

"Funny guy," Vecchio growls. "We got actual police work to do. Some of us actually put our noses to the grindstone...."

There he goes:  a barrage of words designed to deflect everything by insulting Kowalski.

The Ray underneath immediately tunes this out. He has no idea what Vecchio is saying and couldn't care less. He sees lips moving, but he only hears the tone:  a droning, complaining distraction.

He moves closer, invading Vecchio’s personal space. His peripheral vision picks up a sudden new tension to Vecchio's posture and muscles. The flush drains away from Vecchio's face, and his eyes haven't left Kowalski's. Still he drones on, lips flapping some bullshit designed to discourage Kowalski from doing whatever he's about to do.

The Ray underneath smoothly cuts through all that deflection.

"We been working too long. It's the end of the day -- way past. We need something to eat. Now," he says quietly and too close to Ray Vecchio.

Vecchio looks away, turning his head, and Kowalski faces the line of his neck where it disappears under his shirt and jacket.

"Fine. Let's go get a couple roast beef sandwiches," Vecchio agrees, refusing to step away from Ray's closeness, wiping a hand over his face one more time.

The Ray underneath likes to make Vecchio sweat. So he says, low and quiet,

"I got some beef for you."

He watches the flush climb up from Vecchio's neck to his cheeks again. It cheers him; it makes him smile. Vecchio refuses to look at him, but growls, "Shut up. Meet me at the car."

* * *

When they're in the car, Kowalski says, "I’ve got to stop at my place."

"What for?" Vecchio asks, irritated.

"Cash. Don't have enough on me."

"I'll buy. Pay me back later." Dismissed.

The Ray underneath will have none of this. He shakes his head. "I’ve got to stop at my place."

He gets a long-suffering sigh and a sideways glance of capitulation from Vecchio. He smugly knows they'll stop at his place.

* * *

When they get there, Vecchio still balks.

"I'll wait in the car."

The Ray underneath knows this is the last little speed bump. He's been working on Vecchio, wearing him down, getting in his space, speaking phrases with double meanings and innuendo whenever and wherever possible. This is the last obstacle to be overcome. Besides, Vecchio has been in his apartment before.

"Come up," he tells Vecchio. "I’ve got to use the can. Might be a while."

"What is it with you, Kowalski? We're already hungry. By the time we get out of your place, we'll be starving. We shoulda never...."

There he goes again, off on a bitching jag. But he gets out of the car. So Kowalski knows this part of the plan is working.

He manages Vecchio's resistance with a combination of bluster, compromise and carefully timed surrender.

"Right, right, right," he agrees. "Small bladder, big coffee, too much, all day."

Vecchio follows him up the stairs and down the hall to his apartment. It's not the first time he's been here, but that was part of the plan, too:  give Vecchio a false sense of security.

While Ray Vecchio stands looking out his living room windows, Ray Kowalski goes into his bathroom, pisses since he's already there, and then goes to his bedroom. He checks his sock drawer. Condoms, check.

He returns to the living room. Vecchio stands, hands in his overcoat pockets, looking at Kowalski's CDs. "You got a lot of Sinatra, for a Polack," he says.

"A lot of non-Italians got a lot of Sinatra," Ray replies with a shrug. "Sinatra's classic."

"You don't have to tell me that," Vecchio replies, looking at him.

Ray takes off his jacket and throws it on his couch.

The other Ray observes this and says slowly, "What are you doing? We're leaving."

The Ray underneath smiles and steps into Vecchio's personal space again. "I don't think so."

Now Vecchio does step back. "I thought we were going to get a couple of roast beef sandwiches and go back to work?" He gets this cornered look on his face.

"Work'll be there in the morning. It's not urgent, like a missing person’s case or something. Let's order food."

"Kowalski..." Vecchio turns away, stepping to the living room windows.

The Ray underneath knows what to do. He reaches out and grabs the shoulders of Ray Vecchio's overcoat.

Vecchio looks at him warily over his shoulder, as Kowalski starts to slip it off him. But he gives in and lets Kowalski take his coat. Ray hangs it up in the closet behind his front door, then grabs his own jacket off the couch and does the same.

"Where're we ordering from?" Ray Vecchio asks.

Kowalski goes to the kitchen, opens a drawer, and grabs a stack of menus. He brings them to Vecchio in the living room.

"Take your pick," he says.

Vecchio sifts through them. "Huh. You got your heart set on roast beef?" he asks, faced with new choices. He looks at the menu for a nearby diner.

"I'm flexible," the underneath Ray says, low and slow, with as much innuendo as he can. “Whatever you want," he adds, just to get that extra flustered look on Vecchio's face.

It works.

"Fine," Vecchio says shortly. "This diner. I'm suddenly in the mood for a Reuben. Deluxe." He drops the menu on the coffee table, and fishes in his pocket for his wallet. He drops a twenty on the coffee table and looks around. "Where's the remote?"

Kowalski grabs it from the back of the couch and hands it to Vecchio. He takes out his phone and calls in their order. "What kind of soup?" he asks Vecchio when they give him the option.

"What are my choices?"

"Chicken noodle or minestrone."

"You had to ask?"

"Just checking," Kowalski shrugs. "Minestrone," he says into the phone. "Forty- five minutes? Yeah. Thanks." He gives the address and apartment number then hangs up.

Vecchio still stands. He's turned the TV on, muted, and is surfing through the channels.

Kowalski steps in front of the TV, blocking his view. Vecchio shifts his gaze from the TV up to Kowalski's face. "What?"

The Ray underneath surges up, takes full control.

"You know what," he murmurs. He steps right next to Vecchio, chest to chest.

Vecchio's eyes, this close, are huge: green, uncertain, longing. He makes a feeble attempt to deflect. "Kowal--"

He doesn't even get the name out before Kowalski’s mouth is on his, devouring. The fraction of a second of hesitation he musters vanishes when Kowalski's hand slides around the back of his head and deepens the kiss and his other hand pulls Vecchio's shirt tails out of his pants. Then Vecchio is kissing him back, hard.

That done, Kowalski peels Vecchio's suit jacket halfway down, trapping his arms. He shoves his partner down to sit on the couch and stands over him. He lets his gaze rove all over Vecchio. The look on Vecchio's face is priceless. His arms stuck behind him in the suit jacket, his expression shifts through fear, wariness, shyness, hunger.

"You been askin' for this for a long time, Vecchio," Kowalski mutters. He leans down and pushes Vecchio's jacket off completely.

Now that Vecchio's hands are free, he doesn't know what to do with them. They lay palm up beside him and twitch, like they want to clench into fists, but can't quite make themselves. Kowalski takes this as an opportunity.

He unhooks his cuffs from his belt. Very deliberately and slowly, he opens one in the space between them, right in front of Vecchio's face. Vecchio swallows, looking at the cuff then at Ray. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it, silent.

"You're okay with these, then," the Ray underneath says.

It's less a question, more a declaration. He doesn't need or want an answer, but he’ll abide by it if he gets one. He reads everything in Vecchio's posture, face, eyes.

“Yeah,” Vecchio says, lips dry, voice unsteady.

Kowalski squats in front of Vecchio and reaches for one of his wrists. He looks at it only long enough to lock the cuff around it. He leans over and pulls Vecchio's other arm behind him to cuff his two wrists together.

He rocks back and stands, looking down at Vecchio. The man looking up at him is flushed, helpless, uncertain, visibly hard in his pants. 

Kowalski can't wait.

He kneels now, between Vecchio's spread legs, his fingers at Vecchio's belt and fly.

"Way I see it," he says low, focused on unzipping, "we got forty minutes before we're interrupted. I plan to make the most of them."

Then he's got the hot, hard length of Vecchio in his hand, and pretty soon in his mouth. He hears the sharp intake of breath, then a moan as Vecchio sinks back on the couch. Kowalski grabs the backs of Vecchio's knees and yanks, pulling his ass to the edge of the sofa. He sucks the length of cock into his mouth again, and sighs through his nose before he gets down to it.

Pretty soon Vecchio is thrusting up into his mouth, trying to exert control where he has none. Still sucking rhythmically, Kowalski settles him down:  he slides his hands up and down Vecchio's thighs, soothing. He suddenly wants to do that on bare skin. He comes up off Vecchio's cock, to yank down the boxers and pants in his way.

Vecchio's pants and boxers pool between his ankles, now more in Kowalski's way than before. He shrugs, unties Vecchio's shoes and takes them off, tossing them aside. He tears the pants and boxers off completely.

Naked from the waist down now, Ray Vecchio's legs open for him, open wide, give him all the access he needs. He slides his hands up and down Vecchio's naked inner thighs. They quiver under his touch. He grabs Ray's cock with one hand and his balls with the other, and gives each a good tug. Vecchio's eyes are shut tight, his chin down and twisted to one side. He's holding his breath. It all comes out in a rush when Ray sucks his cock in.

Kowalski breathes, short and rough, at the bottom of every third off-stroke. He keeps one hand fisted around the base of Vecchio's cock. He sucks, faster and faster, breathing less often, his lips covering his teeth. Occasionally he swirls his tongue around the head on the off-stroke, and hears Vecchio hiss breath out between his teeth.

He sucks harder, switches to bare teeth when he's sucking the head in, tight. Keeps a steady tug on Vecchio's balls with his other hand. The more excited Vecchio gets, the more Kowalski feels them tightens. His eyes tear with the effort and the depth down his throat that he takes Vecchio's cock.

But it's all good, it's fucking glorious: Vecchio shakes beneath his touch. His undignified panting, snorts and groans are revelry for the Ray underneath. His frenzied thrusts and final explosion are a fire at which the Ray underneath warms himself. He swallows each time Vecchio spurts.

Ray Kowalski comes up off the slick, softening cock of his partner.

Vecchio slides sideways on the couch, awkward because his hands are still cuffed behind him. Sweat trickles down his temples. He keeps his eyes closed.

Kowalski reaches for his cuff key and pushes Vecchio face down on the sofa long enough to unlock the cuffs and free his wrists. Vecchio half sits up, not looking at him, and rubs a chafed wrist with his other hand. Ray Kowalski takes both wrists in his hands and rubs the red indentations with his thumbs.

Vecchio opens his eyes and their gazes lock. He looks exhausted, sated, slightly freaked out.

The doorbell rings and his eyes widen slightly.

"I'll get it," Kowalski says dryly. "You're in no condition."

He cups Vecchio's jaw in one hand. The Ray underneath can do tenderness, too. Vecchio closes his eyes and leans gratefully into his hand, and the Ray underneath feels his hardness -- and something else -- throb.

He stands up, shakes a leg to make room for his cock in his pants, grabs the twenty off the coffee table, and goes to the front door.

"Just a sec," he calls to the delivery guy. He hears Vecchio shift on the couch behind him, probably trying to grab his clothes. Kowalski's erection ebbs but he doesn't care. He's high on Vecchio being here, on the taste of him in his mouth.

He gets his wallet from his jacket in the closet, opens the door, pays for the food, and tips the delivery guy. He returns to the living room and sweeps everything -- including the cuffs and key -- off the coffee table. He shoves everything under the table and sets down the food.

Vecchio has put his boxers and pants back on, but taken his shirt off. He sits on Ray Kowalski's couch in a ribbed sleeveless T and his pants, the fly button unbuttoned. He doesn't meet Kowalski's eyes.

Ray goes to his kitchen for extra napkins, ketchup and mustard.

"Beer?" he calls from the open fridge.

"Yeah," Vecchio agrees, breathless. The Ray underneath smiles, noting that a brand preference was not even mentioned by his meticulous and choosy partner.

He shoves a stack of restaurant napkins in his pocket, grabs two beers by the bottle necks, opens both, and brings everything to the living room, ketchup and mustard in his other hand. He sets everything on the coffee table and settles next to Vecchio. They open the food, passing the containers to each other when they open food meant for the other. There is a companionable silence until Ray Kowalski surfs to the Blackhawks game and turns the sound up on the TV.

They finish eating and Vecchio is good enough -- or shy enough again -- to gather up all the containers and napkins and put them in the paper bag the food was delivered in. He takes it to the kitchen, and then stands there, looking at Ray Kowalski through the nook.

Kowalski feels that look but he pretends not to. He focuses on the game, though he hasn't paid attention to it at all. After a few minutes, Vecchio is still standing there. Kowalski looks at him through the kitchen nook.

"What?"

"You gonna attack me again?" Vecchio asks. He looks strangely forlorn.

"You didn't seem to mind," Kowalski replies mildly. He tilts his beer up for a few swallows, not looking away.

"You gonna--" Vecchio hesitates. "Cuff me again?"

The Ray underneath considers, then speaks from the part of him that means what it says and says what it means.

"I was hoping you'd return the favor."

Vecchio comes out of the kitchen, and looks at Kowalski, his green eyes soft and hungry again.

"I don't know what we're -- what I'm -- doing," he says quietly.

"Yeah, you do," the Ray underneath replies. "You’ve done it enough with Fraser."

Vecchio flushes for, what, the fourth or fifth time now?

"He told you?" he accuses.

"He didn't have to," Kowalski says, and sits up straight from his slouch.

"How much do you know?" Vecchio steps forward, brow knitting.

"No confirmation 'til you, just now – Fraser being chivalrous, and all." He shrugs. "I get it. We're all three chickenshit. He went back north; we came back to what we know."

"So why this?"

He shrugs again. "I'm not as chickenshit anymore. And why not, this? He left, it's our fault; we gotta deal. This is us... dealing."

Vecchio settles heavily on the couch not far from him, and grabs his beer. He doesn't drink it, though.

"Damn stubborn Mountie," he mumbles.

"Like we're not. Look," Kowalski continues. "You miss him, I miss him. But that's different. I don't know what this is, but we got something, Vecchio."

"What is this? Pity?" Vecchio looks outraged as he says it. "Substitute?"

The Ray underneath narrows his eyes and nods at Vecchio's unbuttoned fly, resenting the doubt expressed.

"That feel like pity?" He leans closer, his voice low. "You ever put that kinda effort into pity? Into substitution?" There's an edge he didn't mean to add to his voice.

Vecchio leans closer, too, and grips Kowalski's upper arm tight. "Get up," he says hoarsely. His mouth looks lost but his eyes look angry.

The Ray underneath reads him and is up for anything (again) -- fighting or fucking.

They rise simultaneously. Ray Vecchio still grips Ray Kowalski's upper arm. Hard.

"You gonna do something?" The Ray underneath tempts, shameless.

"Come on," Ray Vecchio growls and pulls Kowalski towards the bedroom.

Kowalski lets himself be dragged down the hall to his bedroom. The minute they enter, he kicks the door shut behind them and spins them around. He backs Vecchio against the closed door. Their mouths come together again, hard.

He tastes Vecchio's Reuben and his beer and he doesn't give a shit. Hands slide up under his shirt, then it is roughly taken off over his head. He lets Vecchio strip him, lets him open his pants and briefs, thrusts his hard cock into Vecchio’s groping hand.

Vecchio turns them again and backs Ray Kowalski up against the cool door, devouring his mouth. When he feels Vecchio's strong hands slide down to pin his wrists, Kowalski moves his mouth sideways to Vecchio's five o'clock shadow.

"Bed frame," he whispers.

Vecchio yanks him away from the wall. Kowalski resists slightly, but only to toe off his shoes, drop his pants, and open his sock drawer to grab the condoms. He throws them on the nightstand. Ray Vecchio shoves him down on the bed.

"Face up or face down?" Vecchio asks, standing next to Kowalski's bed, stripping his own pants and boxers off again, fast.

The Ray underneath smiles. "Dealer's choice."

Vecchio grabs his wrist and Kowalski feels the cold metal of a cuff click tight around it. Vecchio pulls his arm up over his head and threads the cuffs around a bar at the head of the bed. He yanks the other arm up and snaps the other cuff around that wrist.

Vecchio steps back and views his work: Ray Kowalski, stretched out, arms over his head, wrists cuffed to his own headboard.

The Ray underneath looks expectantly up at Ray Vecchio in the semi-darkness. Vecchio freezes, caught looking.

Kowalski's cock throbs, so he shakes his hips a little. His erection swings slightly against his belly.

"You bastard," Vecchio says, his voice a strange combination of sexy and sad.

"Come on," the Ray underneath whispers.

Vecchio settles on him, all that warm, golden flesh covering his body. Their mouths meet, gentle at first, want and need. But it all quickly accelerates.

The Ray underneath strains exultantly at his bonds as his partner's mouth slides from his mouth to his jaw, from his jaw to his collarbone, to his nipple, to his navel. His stomach quivers with anticipation, feeling breath on the trail of hair on his abdomen leading down to his cock. He feels those lips, soft and hot on his stomach. Vecchio pushes Kowalski's pants and briefs off and grasps his cock.

He gets sucked in over Ray Vecchio's teeth and gasps at the sudden, tight suction. Vecchio settles into a fast, slick rhythm. It's been so long, so very long, since Kowalski's had anything but his own hand, fantasies about this, memories of the past. Vecchio's technique may be rusty but his effort is sincere. Kowalski can't hold out for long.

He fights it, twisting his wrists painfully in the cuffs over his head. Release beckons –- threatens -- if he focuses on the hot, sweet, the up and down, in and out of Ray Vecchio's mouth. He bucks the rhythm, but Vecchio is determined. Hands settle on his hips, hard and inflexible, forcing him to hold still and take it until he can't take it anymore:  take the sweet, tight rhythm, take the incredible suction.

Arms stiff over his head, his focus narrows to a pinpoint, every muscle tensing as he fights the cresting of the wave inside him. A split second before it all rushes up and out of him, his senses expand to the ticking radiator, the sweat trickling down Vecchio's temples, the dim sound of the TV in the living room, the squeaking bed, Vecchio's harsh nose breathing.

Then the wave inside him crashes. Everything becomes white noise as Ray Kowalski convulses around the pleasure, again and again.

That sweet mouth is off him, too soon, too soon. He's still twitching, heart racing -- he hasn't yet settled into the loose limbed afterglow -- when he feels himself flipped over. His wrists and arms twist over his head, uncomfortable but not unbearable. He lets his face fall into his sheets. He can't remember when he last changed them. Who fucking cares.

The bed is suddenly lighter as Vecchio gets off. Kowalski hears drawers opened, stuff shoved around. As honey seeps through his limbs, it takes a minute for him to realize that Vecchio's not ransacking his belongings, he's looking for something.

"Night stand drawer," he pants into the bed, his body loose and hot, ready for anything.

The floor creaks when Vecchio steps closer to the bed and opens the drawer. "Got it," he mutters.

The drawer shuts too hard, almost slammed. The condom wrappers crinkle as Vecchio rips one off. The bed dips as he climbs back in.

He feels Vecchio's knees push his inner thighs apart from behind. His heart skips a beat and then thuds faster. Vecchio's not messing around; Kowalski wonders if he woke the dragon. He hears the cap of the lube tube; soon after, cool gel hits his ass and taint. He shivers, then hears the condom wrapper torn open and Vecchio slicking it on.

Then there is pressure at his hole. He almost asks Vecchio to go slow, but thinks better of it. Vecchio wasn't born yesterday. He's done this before. He'll know.

The tip is forced in, then backed off a bit; it pierces, then recedes. The pain is Pavlovian pleasure. Vecchio waits until Ray is used to the girth, then pushes farther. Kowalski breathes, trying to relax and open up. It goes like this, inch by inch. He feels drops of sweat fall from Vecchio onto his back. His heart clenches at the patience and sweetness of this slow penetration. His wrists ache, twisted and tethered to the head of the bed. But he doesn't care.

Finally Vecchio is in him to the hilt. He's accepted the full girth now. It doesn't hurt, if they don’t move. Then Vecchio moves and Kowalski lurches. Pain overwhelms the pleasure once more. Vecchio's hands stroke down his sides and he lays down on Kowalski, completely. The weight of his partner calms Ray Kowalski. Skin to skin like this, Vecchio moves with smaller, subtler hip movements. The penetration changes by tinier increments.

It kind of defeats the purpose of the handcuffs -- a big old "do what you want with me" -- but it's fucking amazing. Vecchio is such a -- lover. Kowalski suspected, but -- Christ -- he didn't know; it makes everything else so bittersweet. As Vecchio rocks in and out of him, Kowalski relaxes. With each longer stroke, he opens further for Vecchio. 

Vecchio starts to move harder, faster -- up on his hands to really fuck him. Kowalski feels the pleasure build in him from a deeper place. He squirms as it rises, unable to contain it. Vecchio goes into a frenzy of thrusting until they both convulse, moans mingling.

The hot, sweaty heat of Ray Vecchio settles on him once more. Their hearts thunder in competing rhythms, their bodies twitch with aftershocks. That warm afterglow slowly settles over Ray Kowalski. Vecchio stays on top of him until his shrinking cock slips out on its own. Then he rolls off and lays beside Ray.

Ray finally feels how stiff and sore his twisted wrists are, the numbness and tingling in his fingers.

He rattles the cuffs against the bed frame. "A little help, here."

"Crap. I forgot." Vecchio sounds sheepish. He rolls off the bed and stands unsteadily. Keys jingle nearby, and then his warm hands free Kowalski's. He slides back in bed and rubs the indentations in Kowalski's flesh. Their bodies curve together. They don't speak.

The Ray underneath is sated for the first time in a long time. For now.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't as long as I wanted it to be (work, writer's block, tendinitis). I also intended a bit of dom/sub, which ended up more light bondage than dom/sub. Many times during the writing of this, I felt like that piano-playing muppet on Sesame Street who keeps hitting the wrong note and finally yells, "Oh, I'll never get it, I'll never get it!" -- then slams his head dramatically on the piano keys. Sigh! Here's hoping it somehow hits the right notes -- or most of them -- anyway.
> 
> "Thank you"s to dessert_first and RL pal M---. Their feedback/proofreading was crucial to improving and clarifying this; they really did me a huge favor with little advance notice. All remaining errors are mine and mine alone. "Thank you kindly" also to the patient and understanding dsss-admins.


End file.
